


Ceremonial

by ladyofrosefire



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Paint, Don't copy to another site, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Ritual Sex, Rituals, accidental arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21905023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: Ceremony:You perform a special religious ceremony that is infused with magic. When you cast the spell, choose one of the following rites, the target of which must be within 10 feet of you throughout the casting.Dedication. You touch one humanoid who wishes to be dedicated to your god’s service. For the next 24 hours, whenever the target makes a saving throw, it can roll a d4 and add the number rolled to the save. A creature can benefit from this rite only once.Fjord and Caduceus perform a ritual.
Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Fjord
Comments: 46
Kudos: 315





	Ceremonial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotAFicWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAFicWriter/gifts).



> NotAFicWriter and I talked fjordclay and then I listened to "only if for a night" and I got bit in the ass by a plotbunny. 
> 
> Thank you to Sparxwrites, Damoselmaledisant, and Celebreultimaverba for all your help.

Fjord’s nose wrinkles as Caduceus dabs paint against his chin. It has a sharp smell, green and grassy. He watched Caduceus make it, grinding oil and flowers and leaves and berries into a thick, yellow paste in a stone bowl with a pestle. The entire time, he hummed deep in his chest, a simple tune that looped back on itself. So while Fjord knows there’s nothing strange in the paint, he cannot help grimacing and shifting on the altar, hopefully not wrinkling the paint already dabbed on his forehead and cheeks. It marks out an ivory death’s-head he’s a little glad he can’t see.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Caduceus asks, pausing with his fingers in the bowl. 

Fjord shrugs. The altar is actually a large, flat stone covered in thick moss. It could be worse, but it could be more comfortable, too. 

“Okay.”

Also, Fjord is naked. It should be freezing, but from the moment Caduceus had sprinkled silver around the clearing, murmuring too quietly for Fjord to hear, the air had been warm as a summer night. The paint is cool by contrast. Caduceus streaks more of it along his collarbones. He sketches it down Fjord’s neck, over the bump of his voicebox, and down to his sternum. Caduceus marks that as well, with three fingers pressed together. Fjord holds his breath. 

“Fjord…” He smiles as he draws his index finger along one of Fjord’s ribs. “Inhale… that’s it. Now breathe out. There you go.”

“I don’t want to mess up the paint.”

It’s the least of what Fjord doesn’t want to mess up, but— If he says the rest of it, Caduceus will ask if he’s sure. He has sworn himself to Melora already if waking up covered in seaweed was any indication. Maybe there’s nothing for him to worry over. But he cannot shake the conviction that if Caduceus asks, he’ll see something in Fjord’s expression, and he’ll reconsider. There will be no more late-night talks, no more looks like Fjord _means_ something, can be something. Will be. He knows it’s selfish, but there’s no shaking the worry. 

Caduceus chuckles, warm and low, and Fjord’s stomach flips over. “You won’t. Can’t say I’ve done this before, but it’s not complicated. Give me your hand.”

Fjord holds it out like they’re going to shake on some deal, thumb side up, fingers together. Caduceus sets the bowl on the altar. Then he reaches out with his left hand and cradles Fjord’s with his, long fingers fitted against the bones in the back of it. As Caduceus’s hand turns, so does his until it lies palm-upward. 

The breath catches in Fjord’s chest, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from coughing. Familiar warmth starts not in his chest, but in his stomach. He does his best to bat it away, willing his face not to flush. 

Caduceus works his way from Fjord’s shoulder to his wrist. He outlines the long bone in Fjord’s upper arm and the two in his lower. Then he paints a circle around Fjord’s wrist that loops and knots beneath his thumb. The only paint he lays on Fjord’s palm is a single line from the heel to the base of his fingers. 

“You’re going to do incredible things,” Caduceus observes, voice a low rumble that Fjord feels all the way down his spine, and squeezes his hand. “From the moment I met you, I knew you were special.”

“I’m—” Fjord clears his throat fruitlessly. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Words are hard. I like actions better than words, anyway. Other hand, now.” 

Fjord gives it to him, heart hammering in his chest. When Caduceus reaches his palm again, he draws an open circle. 

“A shield,” Fjord murmurs. 

Caduceus looks up at that and fixes him with a proud smile. He starts humming, then, low and rumbling. It sinks into Fjord’s bones, and he closes his eyes, unsure if he should try to drown in it or to participate somehow. But all he can think of is leaning in and resting his cheek against Caduceus’, so he holds perfectly still. 

Caduceus keeps humming as he returns his attention to Fjord’s ribcage, dabbing his index finger in the paint again before drawing it along Fjord’s chest. He works from the outside in toward his sternum, marking each rib over the space of a slow inhale. Caduceus has warm hands, soft in between stone-hard calluses, and surprisingly strong fingers. Fjord tries to keep his breathing steady and to ignore his cock filling against his thigh.

Caduceus finishes tracing his ribs and then cups a hand behind his head. “Lie back.” When Fjord hesitates, Caduceus holds his gaze. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” The words come out quickly, Fjord’s breath rushing out of him in their wake. “I—just. No, nevermind.” 

He lies down. Caduceus is so casual about Fjord’s nakedness, but he can’t be, not anymore. In a way, it’s even worse than when he was growing up. He’s not too scrawny anymore, too green, too toothy. It doesn’t matter whether he’s too human or not human enough. There’s no excuse anymore; he’s still an idiot who can’t get his body to do what he fucking tells it to.

Fjord almost prays before realizing it’s maybe bad form to ask a Goddess to help control his dick.

He starts to curl his hands, and Caduceus catches him, just barely brushing his fingertips. “Hey, that’s okay. Deep breaths. We’re almost done—try to hold still.”

Fjord squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” The word sounds so obviously bemused that Fjord almost opens his eyes. Instead, he gestures at himself, face burning copper under the ivory paint. “Huh. You don’t have to worry about that. It’s perfectly natural.”

Slowly, he opens his eyes. He finds Caduceus smiling back at him as he gathers up the bowl again and goes to work on Fjord’s shins. 

“That—” he clears his throat. “Doesn’t mean it’s— Is this _okay_?”

“Does it feel right?” Caduceus sets the bowl down. His hand curls over Fjord’s ankle, thumb rubbing back and forth above and just behind the knob of bone. 

Fjord _feels_ like he wants to curl up and die. His skin is awash with warmth. Caduceus’ gaze fixes on him, and he does his best to avoid it, fixing his eyes on the stars overhead. The moss is soft against his back, but he can feel bits of it breaking off every time he shifts, sticking to skin that’s oddly sweaty even for the unnatural warmth of their circle. The stone beneath it is unyielding. This time, he keeps himself from curling his hands closed. The paint’s still intact, and he plans to keep it that way if nothing else. 

“Fjord,” Caduceus murmurs, “I need you to look at me.”

He does. It’s like being pulled by the tide; he can fight it all he wants, but sooner or later, he’ll be dragged in. He finds Caduceus’ eyes soft and knowing and crinkled at the edges with a warm smile. His stomach flips over. 

“Do you think nature is going to judge you over arousal?”

Fjord’s mouth works. The thing is, Caduceus has a point. He still wants to protest, but there’s no good argument, nothing to justify the squirming in his stomach. That doesn’t get rid of it, of course. 

Caduceus continues before he can protest. “The ritual requires an act of devotion, anyway. Something to show you’re committed to Her. I was just going to ask you to pray and maybe pierce your ear. But this works, too.”

Fjord’s mouth drops open. He gets his jaw closed a moment later, but by then, his face has turned to verdigrised copper everywhere the paint does not cover. “Do _you_ want—You mean—?” He props himself up on one elbow, careful not to smudge anything.

Caduceus stops and thinks about it, head tilted to one side. Then he gives a slow nod. “It feels right. I would be honored to share this with you. ”

“Oh,” Fjord replies dumbly. He lowers himself back to the moss a moment later. “I—alright, then. Do we have—?” And he stops because all he sees is paint, and he’s not quite desperate enough for that.

“I’ve got a bottle of oil. It’s safe, don’t worry. I’ve used it plenty of times.”

And _that’s_ an image, Caduceus propped against a tree thrusting lazily into the circle of his fingers. Fjord stares at the sky, unable to drop an arm across his face, arousal twisting hot and insistent in his gut. 

“Just let me finish your paint first.”

It doesn't get easier to ignore his arousal. Fjord stares up at the sky, stomach twisting with every heartbeat. Caduceus carries on, drawing the notches of Fjord’s spine down his stomach as though he can see it plainly. Fjord has to bite the inside of his cheek when Caduceus brushes paint-wet fingers over the horribly ticklish spot above his left hip. Then his fingers slide inward, and Fjord clamps his teeth down until he tastes blood. But Caduceus pulls away with a low hum and a smile, the line of paint a finger’s breadth from his groin. He gets a wide streak of pale yellow down each thigh, a circle marking each kneecap, warm fingers trailing down his shins, and drawing rings around his ankles. 

If Fjord moves, he’ll mar the paint. He can’t know if the stuff on his face is dry, yet, either, because if he’s wrong, and touches it, he’ll mess it up. His hands itch to do just that, to smear away the death’s head and the careful rib marks and to grab Caduceus with his painted hands and drag him in. 

He doesn’t. 

“You’re doing good, just a second.” Caduceus murmurs. He wipes his hands on the moss before he ducks down to fish what looks like a vial of what looks like holy oil out of his bag. 

Fjord finds himself on the edge of convulsive laughter as he watches Caduceus spill it into his palm and recork the vial. But it mostly smells like olives. Maybe he just doesn’t distinguish between the types of bottles.

Caduceus slips a hand beneath Fjord’s head, fingers rubbing against the shaved part of his skull. “I’ve got you. Just try to relax for me.”

“Relax,” Fjord echos, stomach flipping over. “That’s…”

“You’ll be fine. I’m gonna touch you now.” 

Caduceus waits for him to nod before reaching down to stroke his open palm against Fjord’s cock. It sends a low curl of heat up his spine. Fjord rocks into it, catching his lower lip between his teeth. He can’t shake the knowledge that he’s laid out on an altar. The moss crumbles under his heels as he shifts and digs in. The small patch of overhead sky is very clear, and he keeps his eyes fixed on it until Caduceus leans over him, and he finds his vision filled with white and pink and lavender. Fjord flinches and almost looks away before Caduceus’ gaze hooks his. 

He had not known it was possible to feel any more laid bare than he does already. It’s like being carved open, speared, and held. A long shudder runs down his spine. 

“Hi,” Caduceus smiles. He curls his hand around Fjord’s cock and starts slowly stroking. “You look very nice like this.”

“Hhn?” Fjord replies, articulately. 

“Relaxed. Just being you.” He keeps pumping his hand, and Fjord loses his response to a bitten-off whine. “Come on now. There’s nothing to hide. And I’d like to hear you.”

Caduceus twists his wrist at the end of his next stroke, and Fjord moans softly, mouth tightly closed. Immediately, heat floods his face and chest, and his cock jerks in Caduceus’ hand. And Caduceus _smiles_ , radiant, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Another soft, helpless noise leaves him. It hitches upwards at the end and cracks as another wave of pleasure rocks through him. 

“Good, that’s good,” Caduceus picks up his pace gradually. “Stay nice and relaxed for me.”

Fjord _tries._ He watches Caduceus’ face and breathes as evenly as he can against the rising knot of pleasure at the base of his spine. He bucks into Caduceus’ hand, stomach clenching and his hands nearly curling into fists before Caduceus catches him again. In a moment, he has his hand off of Fjord’s cock, petting instead at his thigh while Fjord huffs and whines and tries to keep his hands from clenching shut. Caduceus waits, still rubbing back and forth just inside the line marking Fjord’s femur. 

Fjord drags in a breath, holds it, and lets it out, trying to let the tension go with it. Some of it goes. His hands fall open, and his shoulders unclench. 

“Thank you, Fjord,” Caduceus murmurs and starts up his rhythm again. 

Fjord tries to watch. Caduceus props his head up when he goes to lift it, so he can stare down his body, past the painted bones to where pale fingers drag against his cock, stark against his flushed skin and turning it shiny-wet. A ragged groan punches out of him, and he squeezes his eyes shut. It’s easier like that, the pleasure sparking through him in the absence of sight and filling his awareness. His legs tremble. His stomach clenches. Again, he tenses, the paint wrinkling as his brow furrows. 

Caduceus pulls away. 

“No, no…” Fjord wants to believe it isn’t a whimper. “ _Please_ don’t stop.”

“Just relax for me,” Caduceus murmurs.

The hand comes back. Fjord cries out, back arching with the first touch before he sinks against the moss. He managed to force his eyes open and look up. Caduceus smiles back at him, and Fjord’s chest twists. But he does not look away. It gets him a thumb rubbing slowly against the base of his skull in rhythm with the hand on his cock. The rhythm is sweet and unhurried, heat dragging through him with each pull of Caduceus’ hand. Fjord has to close his eyes after another few moments as his eyes prickle and his heart pounds. He tenses as his balls draw up, back arching just off the mossy altar. 

And again, Caduceus stops. He pets gently at the inside of Fjord’s thigh until he stops quivering and slumps back against the mossy stone. But he doesn’t make Fjord say _please_ again. 

“You’re doing so well.” Caduceus’ voice rumbles through him as he bends so that his lips brush Fjord’s ear. “That’s it, relax…”

Fjord breathes through it, shuddering as his cock throbs and his toes curl. He has to fight not to tense and arch, to let the tide of pleasure move through him without chasing it. 

And then he feels it, the shiver and thrill of magic on his skin, racing down the lines of paint. It thrums in his blood, his bones. His chest heaves with his ragged breaths, but he does not clench his hands or try to chase Caduceus’s touch. He leans into the hand on the back of his neck and lets his jaw drop open. Breathless sounds come from him, hitching and then breaking.

Paint smears across Caduceus’ wrist as Fjord grabs on, but his rhythm does not slow. 

“Come on,” he whispers, “just a little more. You know what to do.”

Fjord doesn’t, but it’s okay, because Caduceus does, and the pleasure racing up his spine doesn’t leave him any option. He comes with a ragged cry, spilling over Caduceus’ fingers. 

Afterward, he goes boneless, the moss unnaturally comfortable beneath his back, and his body still humming from both orgasm and magic. He lays there, breathing hard, his eyes closed. When he opens them again, he finds Caduceus wiping off his hand, a pleased smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Fjord lets out a long, ragged breath. 

“How do you feel?” Caduceus sets the cloth down and cups Fjord’s cheek just below the lower edge of the death’s head. His fingers are still a little sticky

Slowly, he levers himself upright. The paint on his right palm is already a blurred mess, but the rest of it is mostly intact. And he’s _warm_. The whole clearing is warm. Slowly, he looks around and then turns toward Caduceus. His gaze tracks down and snags on the not insignificant bulge in the front of Caduceus’s pants. 

“Um.” He swallows hard. 

“Oh!” Caduceus smiles. “That’ll go down on its own in a little.”

“I mean. Yeah. But…” he licks his lips. “Could I—would you like a hand?”

A moment passes before Caduceus nods, his smile spreading a little farther. Then he gestures toward his trousers. Fjord takes his invitation, working the laces free with fumbling fingers. He’s not surprised by the size of the cock he finds, but it still makes his tongue adhere to the roof of his mouth. Slowly, he drags his fingers along its length. 

“So… I might need two hands,” he jokes weakly. Then he pauses with his hand halfway to the vial of oil. “Or we could… Bear with me.”

Caduceus looks down at him, running his hands through Fjord’s hair as he leans in and laps at the head of his cock. He takes the head into his mouth, next. It’s _thick_. He has to stretch his jaw as he leans in, and it sits heavy on his tongue, filling his mouth with the taste of salt. Fjord inhales through his nose and presses in closer. He gets Caduceus’ fingers curling in his hair, the other hand curling behind his neck, thumb rubbing back and forth in a slow arc. Fjord takes his cue and slows his pace. He bobs his head, sucks, closes his eyes. Above him, Caduceus rumbles deep in his chest as his cock slips into the heat of Fjord’s throat. 

Fjord runs a hand up under Caduceus’ shirt to press against his chest, over the steady thumping of his heart. It quickens as Fjord keeps going, keeps drawing those long, rumbling moans out of him. His jaw begins to ache, but he ignores it. Caduceus’ hips tremble, and his stomach flexes, and Fjord redoubles his efforts, the need to draw this out just barely losing to his need to feel Caduceus come. 

There are words in amongst the groans, now, murmurs of ‘just like that’ and ‘so good’ that have a warm glow building in Fjord’s chest. He pants softly around the girth of Caduceus’ cock but refuses to pull off at the curious tug on his hair. His other hand fits itself to one bony hip and squeezes. 

“Oh, yes—” Caduceus’ voice shakes, “Oh, _Fjord_ …”

He groans at that, the sound of his name in _that_ tone like he’s the best thing to have happened to Caduceus in a while. It earns him a soft cry and Caduceus thrusting once, twice into his throat. Fjord clutches tighter at his hip with a hum more a plea than encouragement. 

Caduceus gasps his name one last time as he comes down his throat, hands still soft at the back of his head. He shudders through it and then slumps as it ends. Fjord swallows around the cock on his tongue once more before carefully, carefully drawing back. Then he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. 

There’s paint on Caduceus, now, streaked over his hips and his stomach, and Fjord flushes at the sight of it, raising a hand to touch his forehead. 

“If you want to wash that off now, you can,” Caduceus offers, still out of breath. 

Fjord nods. Then he clears his throat and eases himself from the altar and onto his feet. His legs wobble far more than he’d expected, and Caduceus has to catch him and lift him back onto the stone. More paint comes off on his shirt and on his arms. 

“That’s okay,” Caduceus kisses his temple, smearing away still more of the paint. “Let’s rest here for a minute. I’ve got a cloth.”

It’s the same one he had used before to clean his hand. He passes it to Fjord so he can get rid of the worst of the mess on his thighs and then lays back against the moss and holds out one arm, offering his bony chest for a pillow. Fjord sinks against him gratefully. The air is still warm, but Caduceus is warmer, his body surprisingly comfortable to rest against. 

Eventually, he clears his throat and glances up. “Was that good?” 

Caduceus opens one eye. “Mm? Oh, yes.” 

“And the rest of it?” Fjord… honestly isn’t sure whether he’s asking about the sex, first, or the ritual. 

From the way Caduceus blinks at him, they might be one and the same. “Yes. Fjord, you were perfect. And I’m grateful for your trust in me.”

Strange as it feels, though, Fjord believes him. He feels— _warm_ and _safe_ in a way he almost never does. He can’t tell how much of it is afterglow and how much of it is the circle of Caduceus’ arms around him, but he holds tight to it, lets the feeling tuck itself deep into his chest and make a home there. And he finds himself smiling. 

Later, when the magic of the circle fades, they wash in a nearby stream. The water is cold, but Fjord doesn’t mind. The warmth of the ritual clings to him, still, and after, he and Caduceus lay their bedrolls close together and curl in close, the moss beneath them cushioning them as they sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> The author thrives on comments, and emojis count. 🌹♥️🍄 
> 
> Happy holidays! ⭐️⭐️⭐️


End file.
